Nothing would sleep in that cellar, damp as a ditch,Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,Shoots dangled and drooped, Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.And what a congress of stinks! -Roots ripe as old bait,Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,Leaf-mould, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.Nothing would give up life:Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

I thought about you last week! We have a week off in mid-April, discussions at the serious point of flying to Las Vegas and hiking southern Utah national parks so thought of you near Phoenix (which I'm guessing is hours away from Las Vegas)....

Hope you and yours are well and working on your art still makes you happy!